Eishtren chuckled. "No, my lord king, nothing so elaborate. I thought that you could spell the power shaft to cause it to spin by magic."
"I've never cast such a spell, but I'll study on it. I should be able to do it."
"Thank you, my lord king."
The arms of Eishtren's first trip hammer apparatus shattered under the strain after only ten minutes of the fist sized hammer heads striking the large block of steel that had been positioned beneath as an anvil. The gears and push arms of the second one seized and broke their axels after operating for less than three hours. The force applied by the hammers of the third one was insufficient to flatten a red hot steel blank. It was only in iteration number five that the Quaestor's apparatus finally achieved both intended function and durability.
Then Eishtren began in earnest to make swords.
He made shortswords, broadswords, sabers, and all manner of blades used by all manners of peoples about the Silver Sea. He made thousands upon thousands of them, the vast majority of which were cast back into the fire when completed. He experimented with different steels, adjusted weights, and adapted designs. Where he had taken to blacksmithing as a venerable trade, he attacked weaponsmithing as a high art.
Ninety-two years after he had be had first picked up the blacksmith's hammer, the archer presented Mar with a single-edged sword of amazing quality. With equal ease, its edge could shave -- as Eishtren quite happily demonstrated -- the hair from a man's arm and slice through three plies of hardened leather backed with thin plate. Its slightly curved, silvery blade glistened in the light of the forge, shinning almost with an inner fire.
It did shine in the ether. Eishtren's single-minded dedication to the craft had drawn flux into the blade and that flux had coalesced into patterns intrinsic to the metal and to its purpose. Mar knew that the steel would never tarnish, that the blade could not be broken, and that the razor edge would never dull.
The sword was magic and its like had not been seen in all of modern history.
When Mar told him of this, the quaestor nodded, laid his hammer down, and never took it up again.
The sword went to the cellar.
In the two hundred and thirty-seventh year of his exile, the archer requested seasoned woods, exotic glues, draw knives, and cordage. He had thought to become a bowyer.
Mar nodded. "I only ask one thing."
"Yes, my lord king?"
"Never shoot any of the bows you make."
Eishtren smiled. "That is a given, my lord king."
In the three hundred and ninety-second year of his exile, the archer had a notion to become a portraitist. After some decades of unstinting work, he could routinely produce very lifelike images in either charcoal or oils. In that time, he had created at least one portrait of nearly all of the people who he knew or had met throughout his life. The best of these he hung about the palace.
He did not, however, produce any portraits of his wife or children.
In the five hundred and first year of his exile, the archer began to learn to craft and to play various musical instruments. While he did fashion praiseworthy shawms, citterns, drums, flutes, horns of all sorts, viols, rebecs, and qitars, the tunes that he managed to tease from them were, by his own easy admission, pedestrian at best and certain to drive mice into a frenzy on average.
In the six hundred and eighty-seventh year of his exile, the archer began to study and experiment with horticulture. After a number of years he planted an apple orchard just out from the terrace.
"Apple trees are extremely finicky, my lord king," he explained. "To grow them well, one can only have the most optimal conditions. I have attempted to breed a hardy variety that will survive the bitter winters and dry summers that I have here."
The trees flourished and grew to shade the terrace. The apples were tiny, bitter, and tended to induce vomiting.
In the eight hundred and forty-second year of his exile, the archer began to focus on entirely intellectual pursuits. He devoured every tome that Mar could provide him on the subjects of philosophy, history, geography, and mathematics. Tottering piles of books began to appear in every vacant space in all of the thirteen rooms, but still Eishtren asked for more.
After some twenty years of study, the archer began to write.
He wrote condensations, commentaries, and concordances. He composed rebuttals, reconsiderations, and refutations. He penned texts on anything and everything that he had studied, considered, or encountered in print.
Once, Mar visited to find the archer burning a great mass of his manuscripts on a clear patch of bedrock out beyond the orchard.
The Quaestor gave the Imperial salute as he always did when Mar appeared, but did not interrupt the slow feeding of pages from his wheel barrow into the smoldering pile.
"Too much to store?" Mar asked him.
"Not every thought that passes through a man's head is worthy of preservation, my lord king," Eishtren replied with a smile.
In the nine hundred and ninety-fourth year of his exile, Mar was moved to ask the archer, "How much can a man learn in a dozen lifetimes?"
Eishtren's response was not immediate and when he did reply, his words were simple and concise.
"In a dozen lifetimes, a man can learn that the thing that matters will always matter."
"And what is the thing that matters?"
"My lord king, family is the only thing that matters in life."
On the day that he was to leave the palace forever, the archer was waiting upon the terrace, bow in hand.
Without a word, Mar delved the weapon.
"Has it been enough, my lord king?" Eishtren asked in an even tone.
"Yes, it is enough."
Mar returned Eishtren to the bridge in the second after the second in which he had stolen him from it. While The Knife Fighter's Dirge held normal time at bay, Mar led the archer from undertime and placed him exactly as he had stood when he had originally faced the Phaelle'n' onslaught .
In this instant, their dead friends were gone from the bridge, already spirited away to the Bunker and Llylquaendt's autodoc. The monks' steel beetles, both whole and the wrecks that crowded the eastern half of the bridge, were waiting either to continue their charge or to burn. The various fires and columns of black smoke rose from the bridge and the bank as suspended images of agitated motion.
"Are you ready?" he asked the quaestor.
He had not allowed his portal to close, but stood wholly within undertime. Only the hand that grasped the back of Eishtren's leather belt extended into normal time. He thought that he could snatch the archer away before the ethereal blast consumed him, but he knew that he would have only the sheerest fraction of a second to accomplish the deed.
"My lord king, I have been ready for a thousand years."
Mar summoned the ether to give inhuman strength and speed to his arm, shoulder, and back. "Do it."
Eishtren brought the bow down across his knee.
NINETEEN
Last Awakening
(Secondday, Waxing, 3rd Summermoon, 1645 After the Founding of the Empire)
(Llylquaendt's timeframe)
The Bunker
Llylquaendt, returning from treating a child's sprained ankle on the level given over to the civilians (who now numbered more than a hundred, including various spouses, sundry children, and the tradesmen recruited to provide for the growing Bunker community -- cooks, seamstresses, and the odd carpenter and button maker), decided to turn in at the corridor that led to Waleck's quarters.
Of late, the medic often stopped to chat with the old waste miner. The two of them shared a similar and more or less unique perspective: both had been born into the age of magic, both had survived the end of magical civilization, both had endured while the new world came to be, and both had come to accept and appreciate a world without magic. Llylquaendt considered Waleck a peer in ways that none of the other current inhabitants of the Bunker could be.
Admittedly, Waleck's experience of the progre
ss of this current age was many times more detailed than his own, but Llylquaendt had found that superior knowledge to be a facilitator to conversation rather than an impediment.
Today, however, Llylquaendt's motivation for the visit did not involve simple conversation.
Ceannaire Lhuraltrn and Marine Bu'sm were on duty today. As he approached, Llylquaendt addressed Bu'sm. "How is your shoulder, marine? Still giving you trouble?"
"Aye, my lord medic. How could you tell?"
"The way you stand. You are favoring that side just slightly. Ready to go in the autodoc?"
Bu'sm shook his head, not quite frowning. "I think I'll hold off just a bit more. I still think that my shoulder'll get better on its own."
Many of the revived armsmen, while never speaking of their reservations in his presence, had displayed a strong reluctance to have anything further to do with the autodoc. A few of them, Truhsg had confided, considered being brought back from death to be, in some unclear way, a punishment.
"Your decision. Let me know if you change your mind."
"Aye, my lord medic."
Waleck was reading when Llylquaendt entered. "Good afternoon! Find something interesting?"
As he stood to greet Llylquaendt, Waleck waved his hand to dismiss the reader. "The volumes of the Imperial Encyclopedia of 742 AFE. How did you come across the auxiliary commentaries? As far as I had known, they had been lost since the Three Cousins Wars."
Llylquaendt had spoken in Common and Waleck had responded in kind. The ancient tongue would more readily permit discussion of the subject that had brought the medic.
"I was passing through the Imperial Seat in 743 and purchased the full set," Llylquaendt admitted with a laugh. "I almost threw them away. I thought the commentaries were dense, misinformed, and opinionated claptrap."
"I have only worked through the first three, but thus far I am in complete agreement with that judgment. However, as a resource for examination of scholarly thought in that era, they are invaluable."
"I suppose, but it would be a thoroughly dull examination."
Waleck tilted his head. "I cannot contest that. How are you today, my friend?"
"Exceptionally well, as a matter of fact. Aside from a sprained ankle, all of my civilians are in reasonably good health. There have been no major medical emergencies in four days."
"Congratulations!"
"Clean water and proper nutrition have done most of the work, but High-Captain Mhiskva's ceaseless campaign to convince everyone to agree to preventative treatment has turned the tide. For the first time in their lives, many of these people have a chance to be truly healthy."
"Your own diligent work cannot be so easily dismissed, my friend. It is your knowledge and dedication that has given them that chance."
"I only do my duty. But enough self-congratulations. I have come to ask a favor of you."
"Anything within my power is yours."
"Thank you, but you should hear my request first. Your sprite population contains the only extant copies of a number of key medicinal strains. With your permission, I would like to retrieve samples and attempt to replicate them."
"My sprites, as you know, are dysfunctional at best."
"I am certain that they can be reprogrammed and restored to full functionality. It would take at most half an hour in the autodoc."
"I am certainly willing, but by Mar's command I am confined to these rooms."
"Except in the case where you require necessary medical treatment that cannot be performed with mobile devices."
"Mar has given permission for this?"
"I have required it of him."
"I doubt that Mar would consider the reprogramming and sampling of my sprites to be necessary."
"It is for Elihda, the baker's daughter. Due to a genetic abnormality, her kidneys are failing. While I can sustain her with autodoc repairs, she would be forever confined here, a prisoner of her own faulty genes. If she left, she would eventually sicken again and die. If I succeed with the replication, I can infuse her with a targeted payload and she will be free to go wherever she wishes."
"In that case, I am ready when you are."
"Excellent. Come with me."
Ceannaire Lhuraltrn half drew his sword when he saw Waleck emerge behind Llylquaendt. "The prisoner is not to leave his cell, Master Llylquaendt."
The medic held up a hand in a pacifying gesture. "I am taking him to the autodoc. His sprite payload requires reprogramming that cannot be performed here."
Lhuraltrn looked uncertain. "Is that thing -- what you said in the old language -- something that he needs to stay alive? I'm sorry, Master Llylquaendt. The king said that he can leave only if he's dying."
"We are all dying on the day that we are born, Ceannaire. The procedure will insure that he and many others here do not die prematurely."
"I should send for High-Captain Mhiskva."
"Certainly." Llylquaendt walked forward, forcing the two armsmen to make a choice between giving way or drawing upon him. "Tell Mhiskva that he can find us in the lower chamber."
Both armsmen readily gave way, though Lhuraltrn scowled.
When they had turned a corner in the corridor, Waleck said to him from behind, "The Gaaelfharenii will not step aside."
"True, but I happen to know that he is at this very moment leading the recruits on a three league run on the surface."
"Convenient."
"Yes, it is." Llylquaendt laughed.
As always, the medical level was empty save for the equipment. High-Captain Mhiskva's standing orders kept all the civilians and armsmen out unless they required medical attention or had been summoned by the medic.
"If you would, just hop up on the autodoc pedestal. I want to be done by the time Mhiskva shows up."
Waleck complied without delay. "Should I recline?"
"No, stay seated. I will begin with a full census and then proceed immediately to a comprehensive code verification. The autodoc will automatically reconfigure any discrepancies."
Waleck nodded. "I recall the procedure."
Llylquaendt broke beams of light in the sequence red, yellow, blue. There was no need to make adjustments or enter parameters; the device would establish those on its own. Designed to operate under battlefield conditions, the autodoc was an extremely complex device with extremely simple controls and while he understood the basic theory, the spells were actually far beyond his magical abilities.
After a few minutes, Waleck winced.
"Are you experiencing discomfort?" Llylquaendt asked him.
"My knees. I think the sprites are doing something."
"Excellent. Let me know if the discomfort becomes more intense."
"Assuredly."
Llylquaendt read the lights. "All errors have been corrected. With your permission, I will begin the sampling now."
"You have it."
The control sequence was a long one, and he went over it twice in his mind to make sure that there would be no error, then Keyed blue, orange, green, brown, red, red, blue, purple, silver, gold, gold, red, red.
The feedback lights skipped through a new dance.
Llylquaendt felt a brush of odd air and turned about to see an angry Mar step from nothing into the room.
The young man's expression was dark, far darker than Llylquaendt had ever seen it.
TWENTY
1645 After the Founding of the Empire – Event +32 cycles
Full capacity having been restored, the communications network generated the initial command.
AWAKE.
PRIMARY SYSTEM MONITOR NODE ONE ACTIVE.
STARTUP PROTOCOL: Query Status.
GLOBAL SYSTEM CONTROL: Operational.
GLOBAL SYSTEM MONITOR: Operational.
SYSTEM STATUS: Optimal.
SYSTEM CENSUS: Full Capacity.
ENGAGE PRIMARY PROTOCOL.
QUERY STATUS.
01: CEREBRA: Synaptic Integration Required.
02: CARDIAC: Reconstructio
n Complete.
03: PULMONARY: Reconstruction Complete.
04: …
STATUS COMPLETE: Action Required: 01: CEREBRA: Synaptic Integration Required.
SYSTEM MONITOR NODE ONE consulted its cache of Host preferences, found no flags forbidding the operation Synaptic Integration, and began to marshal its multitude of sprites to accomplish the task. As its base parameters were set at MAXIMUM SAFETY, it first began the twenty odd trillion calculations that would be required to redundantly check the necessary steps for full Synaptic Integration of Host.
TWENTY-ONE
Mar felt his jaw jumping.
"I didn't give you permission to leave your room," he barked at Waleck.
"I brought him here," Llylquaendt interceded quickly. "I needed a sample of his sprites. He only came on my insistence. If you feel the need to mete out punishment, then I am the one that should rightly receive it."
"I am the offender, not the medic," Waleck contended. "Please do not feel anger against this good man."
Mar wrinkled his lips as he found he could not escape the feeling that it was he who was the offender in this matter and not either of the old men who stood calmly before him.
He delved Waleck. Mar's faded Common had left hints of meaning in his mind and he had some idea of what sprites were. Waleck's ethereal shadow was alive with sparks of ethereal light, sparks a dozen times smaller than something that a man could see. Though they were now much more vigorous, organized, cohesive, and active, he recognized them. These were the "infinitesimally small autonomous mechanisms composed of the purest flux" that Waleck had informed him of previously.
He turned back to Llylquaendt. "You've fixed them."
"Of course. Malfunctioning sprites would be useless for my purposes."
"Will these sprites allow him to do more magic?"
"His entire payload is strictly curative in nature. The sprites simply restore his body and maintain his health. The only significant side effect of that maintenance is his extended lifespan. Even in disarray, they have kept him alive for all of this time. While they cannot make him young, after the repairs they should now make him feel less old."
Thief (The Key to Magic Book 7) Page 10